


In Bloom

by searchingforpeter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Cake, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flowers, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 06:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2378513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingforpeter/pseuds/searchingforpeter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the abandoned building next to his bakery finally sells, Mycroft is pushed into becoming acquainted with his new neighbour, a vibrant young florist by the name of Anthea.</p><p>It’s only when his customers start coming in with bunches of bright, beautiful flowers that he realises she might be quite good for business. And for him, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello Neighbour!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the September AU challenge posed by Sherlock Rare Ship on Tumblr. Explicit rating for smut in the final chapter.

The premises beside his own had been vacant for months. Mycroft had thought about expanding ' _For Queen And Cupcakes_ ' into it more than once; he could bridge the gap created by the through-street between the two by turning the second building into a café, rather than a walk-in bakery with limited seating. It had always been a business plan for another time, despite having the money and means to do so.

 

Now, however, it would be a business plan that could have been, rather than one that one day would be.

 

He hears the unfamiliar rumbling of a moving van in the early hours. The street is usually quiet until noon, save from a few mopeds and the odd car on the main road, a few blocks away. It coughs and splutters until it grinds to a halt, disrupting his regularly peaceful morning routine. Checking on the disturbance is his second mistake. The first, of course, being that he had never expanded his bakery in the first place.

 

On the other side of the natural divide, a large truck has parked and a young woman is hopping out of the passenger seat. She grins up at the empty building with its boarded-up windows and flaking paint work as if she is setting her eyes on a masterpiece. Mycroft doubts that he has ever seen anyone so happy to be looking at a decrepit piece of dated architecture. There she is, though, and the 'For Sale' sign has gone from above the door. The new owner, then. Obvious really.

 

“Morning!”

 

Mycroft twitches when she calls out to him; he forces a smile and a polite enough wave, but it's still far too early to be engaging in proper conversation with anyone. Especially someone that could be so bright and cheerful before ten o'clock when they didn't need to be.

 

Over the course of the next few hours, Mycroft listens to her directing the workmen that arrive in a second van. The boards on the windows snap in a rather satisfying manner, and he can picture the splinters scattering across the cobbles outside. He doesn't hear the door open when they begin to move off the street and inside, but he doesn't doubt that it creaked when they pushed it open. Perhaps the old bell inside is still there, too, and it might have tinkled when his new neighbour passed under the doorway.

 

On his lunch break, shortly after two o'clock, he notices flowers, buckets upon buckets of them, and the young woman inside, cleaning and giving gentle orders and smiling.

 

She waves again, through the window. Mycroft keeps walking.

 

*****

 

Anthea sees him often enough, the baker from next door. She's only ever spoken a few words in greeting to him, friendly hellos and well wishes in the morning, which is truly a shame. She hadn't had particularly high hopes of becoming friends with those around her, but the woman that owns the charity shop next door and the old man in the Post Office across the street seemed lovely enough when she'd met them a few days ago. That baker, though? He didn't seem particularly pleasant. Perhaps he just didn't like people all too much.

 

Still, she won't be so easily swayed. Anthea would have them on speaking terms, at least, just to be polite and friendly. There's nothing wrong with being a good neighbour, after all, and it had been a fortnight since she had begun work on the property next door.

 

She steps into the bakery around noon, joining the throngs of people that have come in on a quest for lunch. She can't blame so many people for heading to the bakery. Everything looks absolutely divine; rows upon rows of cupcakes line the bottom rows of every display case, topped by huge, round sponge cakes and cheesecakes, and all the fresh loaves and sandwiches sit on the top row, all laid out neatly. The smells, too, are even better inside than they are on the street. Anthea is enchanted by the rolling heat from the oven behind the counter that brings the smell of baking bread forward. There's an undertone of sweet things, too, like sugar and jam and the slight bitter edge of chocolate.

 

Behind the counter is the man everyone is there to see, though. The displays, as beautiful as they are, can't live up to the prowess of the baker. He's managing the ovens, dough, order boxes _and_ customers, and Anthea couldn't be more impressed if he had started to play an instrument while he was at it. There's a faint smile too, almost hidden beneath the soft fluff of a ginger beard; he's handsome, even if he is a bit unfriendly, and Anthea is sure she's not the only woman in the line to have noticed that either.

 

Eventually, Anthea makes it past the shop workers on their twenty minute break and the teenagers that are quite obviously not supposed to be off school premises, and she smiles warmly at the man across the counter. Mycroft isn't quite sure why he's surprised to see her. She's only a few paces away, after all, and coming into his bakery would be the easiest option for a quick lunch. Even so, the sight of her bright smile as she swipes her dark hair away from her face has him rooted to the spot. He can tell that she's been busy decorating, fitting out her shop for the grand opening the next day. There's a twig stuck in the hem of her cardigan, a small, green leaf on her shoulder that she hasn't yet seen, and a smear of yellow paint on the outside of her wrist that she mustn't have noticed when she cleaned her hands.

 

“Afternoon, neighbour.” Anthea greets, not entirely sure why she's under such close scrutiny. She tucks her thin cardigan closer around herself and purses her lips, ducking her head a little to get a better look at one of the display cases. “Busy, hmm? I can definitely see why, though. Now... Can I have a cheese ploughman's and two red velvet cupcakes? Thank you very much.”

 

“Two?” Mycroft echoes, both to be sure and to keep her talking. He moves behind the display case, fetches the sandwich – wrapped in brown paper around the lower half, tied off with coarse string – and plucks out two of the cupcakes from the end of the cabinet. Red velvet are his favourite, both to eat and to make, and it might not be much to have in common with his new neighbour, but he supposes that it's a start. “Expecting company?”

 

Anthea laughs at that. She shakes her head and pulls out her purse, rifling through her loose change to find the exact amount. “No, no, not today. There's too much to do before tomorrow morning. I just really like cake.” She smiles when she hands over the money, collecting the small cupcake box and her sandwich in return. “It's dangerous, being so close to a bakery. I'll end up sinking my profits into your business at this rate.”

 

 _No you won't_ , Mycroft thinks, a faint smile on his lips as she walks away, _you're far too savvy for that, far too clever._

 

*****

 

That evening, as Mycroft is closing up shop, he spots her again. Teetering on a ladder, this time, she's high above him with a tub of paint slung over one arm and a brush in the other. There's not much light on the narrow street, but she already has that covered. Mycroft would have found the head torch clamping her hair around her ears comical if it wasn't so sensible.

 

“Still busy then?” Mycroft calls, and the words hang in the crisp evening air like an offered olive branch.

 

Anthea shifts on the top rung and tucks the paintbrush behind her ear. She doesn't seem to mind when the paint drips onto her vest, splattering the hem with droplets of sky blue. Again, she smiles. _Does she ever get fed up of smiling?_ Mycroft wonders, locking up the bakery shutters.

 

“Well, someone has to paint the sign.” Anthea shrugs. She wipes a paint-stained hand across her forehead and it's by pure chance that she doesn't smear any there, too. “And I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it properly. Some things you just have to do yourself.”

 

Mycroft can't argue with that. It's the reason he has no staff, after all, besides a young man that comes in around noon to help him clear up when the few people that can sit in at the bakery don't bring back their plates or leave plastic bottles lying around. Everything else – all the kneading, baking, decorating – is done by Mycroft personally. He'd never run the risk of having someone else produce his food, not after building up such a wonderful reputation for himself. The stress is intense, but he gets to do what he loves and for that, he can't complain.

 

When he stops thinking about how true her words are, she's gone back to painting. The lettering curls in perfect cursive, melting into one another seamlessly. She could have been a calligrapher, perhaps, but the path of the florist is obviously her calling instead. She leans back, and Mycroft can finally read the elegantly painted sign: _The Enchanted Florist._ He laughs when he reads it, a chuckle for how delightfully clever it is, and the woman atop the ladder turns to him again and grins.

 

“You like it, then?”

 

“I do, I do. It's very charming.” Mycroft nods, appreciating the lovely play on words a little more.

 

She is definitely clever, then, and obviously eager to step onto friendly ground with him. What harm could it do, really, to have a neighbour that might also be a friend?

 

“I don't think I caught your name, this afternoon.” Mycroft calls up to her, his hands in his pockets as he takes a few more steps. He's stood at the bottom of the ladder, almost, and he has to crane his neck a little to see her face. “When you came into the bakery, that is. Perhaps we should be on friendly terms, as neighbours.”

 

Anthea finishes the last letter with a small flourish before she looks down at him again. She drops the brush into the pot of paint and offers it down to him; he takes it readily, after a little bit of stretching, and Anthea climbs down. “You're right. You didn't catch my name.”

 

“May I ask your name, then?”

 

“Azalea.”

 

It's not, and they both know it. Anthea wears a small, cheeky smile; she'd be terrible at poker, Mycroft realises. She's quite obviously giving him a false name, though it would be rather fitting for her to be named after a flower, given the circumstances.

 

“While I'm sure that would make for a lovely story about floristry being your true calling, I don't quite believe that's your real name.”

 

“No, it's not. Well done.”

 

Thankfully, he isn't wrong. He seldom is, but there are times when he is blinded by his own intelligent judgement and he can get things terribly off the mark. It wouldn't have been wise to offend her when he's trying as best he can to be friendly, either.

 

“What shall I call you, then?” Mycroft challenges, offering her the pot of paint. She takes it with a grin and sets it by the front door. Tackling the ladder is at the forefront of her mind, but she listens as she begins to ease it away from the sign. “Let's see... I could still call you Azalea, of course. Or Acacia, perhaps? How does that suit you? Abelia? Asparagus?”

 

They're both laughing by the time he's done. Anthea holds her stomach as she sets the ladder down, her laugh melodic and light against Mycroft's deeper, gut-rumbling chuckle. And to think, she had thought him cold and unfriendly when he had refused to speak with her every time they passed one another.

 

“ _Asparagus?_ ” Anthea wheezes, shaking her head as she wipes her eyes. She takes a moment to calm down and clear the tears from her cheeks. Her face aches with how wide her smile is, but that was truly a phenomenal joke on his part. “My name is Anthea.” She tells him, once they're both composed again.

 

Mycroft has to be sure that he's getting the right information, this time. He lifts an eyebrow quizzically, and all she does is smile again. “And is that your real name?”

 

“Maybe.” Anthea winks, finally shrinking the rungs on her ladder so that she can place it just inside the shop door. She caps the paint and doesn't elaborate. “What's your name, then?”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

He answers too quickly, too calmly for it to be a lie. Anthea knows a liar when she sees one anyway. She straightens up and extends her hand, still flecked with paint and bits of soil from where she had been potting earlier. “A pleasure to meet you, Mycroft. You'd best be off home, hadn't you? I'm almost done and it's getting late, so I won't be long for here either.”

 

Mycroft shakes her hand; he feels the slick transferral of paint from her palm to his and rolls his eyes. When he speaks, though, he smiles. “A pleasure to meet you too, Miss Anthea. Have a good night. I'm sure I'll be seeing you tomorrow, too.”

 

She calls a goodnight to him as he wanders down the street, towards his home, and he still finds himself smiling when he arrives there. _What an odd thing_ , Mycroft thinks, twisting the key in the lock, now far from the bakery and Anthea's flower shop. _What an odd thing indeed._


	2. How Time Flies

It doesn't take long for them to fall into a rhythm. Every day, Anthea stops at _For Queen And Cupcakes_ in the morning, just after Mycroft has opened up, and she pesters him with idle small talk about the weather, movies, football games, music, anything and everything she feels like while he bakes the first loaves of the day. She leans against the dark, polished wood of the counter and crosses her ankles behind her, a wide smile on her face and a coffee in hand, always.

 

(Mycroft doesn't serve hot drinks in his bakery; they would take up too much time and most customers are just fine with whatever happens to be in the cooler, but he makes an exception for Anthea in the morning.)

 

She becomes a regular at lunchtime too. Mycroft knows her order by heart after a few days and always makes sure to have it ready at _exactly_ twelve-thirty-five when she comes in after shutting up shop for her break. Anthea sits on the stool closest to the counter, which is always empty when she arrives, and eats her lunch and shoots the breeze with Mycroft. She talks to the other customers, too, entertaining them if Mycroft is busy and can't quite get to them as fast as he would like.

 

After a few weeks, he begins to notice that a few people that would come in once, maybe twice a week are there almost every day, talking to Anthea over a cupcake or two. It's not long before he notices people carrying flowers and boxed bouquets when they order; Anthea certainly isn't sinking her own profits into his bakery, but business is on the rise and he knows – despite how he would like to deny it – that he only has Anthea to thank for that.

 

*****

 

Halloween passes. Mycroft adds an extra cake to Anthea's usual order when she comes in on the 31st. He'd put it on the menu with her in mind; it's a warm, rich pumpkin spice sponge with a thick swirl of cream-cheese frosting, a tiny dust of cinnamon and a fondant ghost propped on the top. The dark orange wrapper makes her hand look pale when she picks it up, but Anthea laughs when she shows him the pumpkin earrings dangling from her ears and confesses to being in the holiday spirit herself. That laugh makes him want to ask if she has plans for the evening.

 

_Does she like Halloween?_ He thinks, refusing to charge her for the cupcake that he'd added onto her order. _Does she watch horror movies? Carve pumpkins? Go out with friends?_

 

He wants to ask if she'll have dinner with him, to escape from the first few rounds of insistent trick-or-treaters. In the next breath, she tells him that she's taking her nieces and nephews out for their first proper Halloween outing. When Mycroft opens his mouth, he doesn't ask her to dinner. He tells her that he hopes she'll have fun, show him photos tomorrow, and is a little bit astounded that she actually _has_ a life outside of her work. She'd never mentioned it before.

 

*****

 

It's bonfire night, and Anthea almost trips over her own feet as she bounces into the bakery in the evening. She's grinning ear to ear – Mycroft is used to it by now, and even thinks it's endearing – and trussed up like she's expecting the next ice age. It's both comical and adorable, seeing half of her face disappear beneath the wrappings of a too-long scarf and her hands vanish beneath the dangling sleeves of her jumper.

  
“Mycroft!” She gasps, shivering a little despite her woollen trappings. Before she says anything else, she sets a small bouquet onto the counter and tugs down her scarf so that she can actually speak. Mycroft offers her the last few sips of his tea and she takes it gratefully; it's still warm, almost piping hot as she swallows what's left in a single mouthful, and then she's back to smiling when she puts the mug back down. “Thanks. Really. Um... These are for you. Happy Guy Fawkes' Night!”

 

The bouquet is beautiful, he realises. Huge, violet blooms of allium cristophii ( _Star of Persia_ , Anthea tells him) are set against subtler, dusky pink blossoms of Angelica and fronds of Canadian goldenrod. Sprigs of vibrant purple thistle and dark pink fountain grass frame the edges, holding the bursts of colour together perfectly. There's a card tacked to the front of the box that holds them, too, with a tiny, painted firework on it and a little ' _A_ ' in the corner.

 

“It's supposed to look like fireworks.” Anthea admits, tucking hair behind her ear as she looks bashfully at her creation. He hadn't seen anyone else come out of her shop with a bouquet like it that day, so she must have put it together especially.

 

Mycroft plucks out one of the last bonfire night cookies from the display case – ginger with a caramel centre, finished with a hand-piped yellow firework – and slides it across to her. He kisses her cheek, too, when she leans to take it. “Thank you, Anthea. They're beautiful, and I'm sure they'll make my rather dull front room look wonderful.”

 

She wants to invite him to the firework display her brother is dragging her to. Anthea hesitates with a mouthful of sharp, sweet cookie.

 

_Would he care about a firework display?_ _Would he be intimidated by being around my brother and his children?_

 

In the end, she gives him a hug and tells him to keep warm, before heading off. The cookie tastes sweeter the further she goes from her shop and the bakery. But then she might have been imagining that to cover the bitter taste of not asking him to join her, after all.

 

*****

 

Neither of them are around for Christmas, nor the huge celebrations in London for the new year. Anthea is in Scotland, with her mother, and Mycroft travels to the coast and the Holmes family cottage, despite his protests against it. Christmases in the Holmes household were never particularly peaceful. Sherlock is always a pain, his father is always asleep, his mother stresses too much, etc, etc... The story never changes. This year, Mycroft wonders what Scotland is like, snowy outside and warm inside, the picture of perfection.

 

He had hoped to see Anthea, before she left; he'd made a Christmas cake for her, packed with fruit and brandy, but she had gone before he'd gotten the chance to give it to her. His mother was just as appreciative of it, none the less. On Christmas Day, he remembers that he has Anthea's phone number. They'd exchanged them over a tea one morning, just in case either one of them had to go away and something happened to their business. Or so she'd said when she gave him her number, at least.

 

_Merry Christmas, Anthea. I hope you and your family are well. -MH_

 

It's not long before she responds; Mycroft is almost surprised at how fast her reply comes through, given the distance and time of year.

 

_Merry Christmas to you too! We're all well, bit manic with so many of us. Five nieces and nephews, all under ten. I could use your cupcakes to keep them quiet! Give my love to your family and try not to catch a cold! -A x_

 

It's silly, really, how much such a small thing as her thinking about his cupcakes to quieten her young nieces and nephews means to him. When his brother teases him about the smile he's wearing, Mycroft says nothing. Sherlock's too clever for that, he'd see right through anything he tried to say, and he really didn't need him showing up at the bakery with Anthea around.

 

*****

 

_(When they got back from their trips away over the Christmas period, they had had so much to tell each other. Mycroft told her all about his brother, his mother and father, and showed her photographs of the cottage and the coast and his family._

_She had almost been able to feel the cold sea breeze when he spoke about it. The way he told each story had her completely ensnared; she wished she'd been there to see it first hand. The feeling of being involved – or at least wanting to be involved – stayed with her.)_

 

*****

 

The shops are full of heart-shaped balloons and every child Mycroft sees is trying to chase another with a candy heart in their hands. Valentine's Day seems to have come around faster this year, for some reason. Christmas had been stripped away quickly enough, as always, but there's usually a lull, Mycroft thinks, that simply isn't there this year.

 

Perhaps it's because Anthea already has her Valentine's advertisements in the window of her flower shop. Huge bouquets of white and pink, alternative options that bloom bright with yellow and orange; she's offering hampers, too, with wine and tiny teddy bears, all complete with her tiny hand-written, hand-painted cards. Mycroft can't remember the last time he did something for Valentine's Day in the bakery. He'd done a few cakes before, specifically for other people, but he didn't stock heart-shaped cookies or cupcakes with pink frosting especially for the occasion. Maybe he should, this year.

 

Anthea watches him from inside her shop, playing with the forget-me-not bloom in her hands. She remembers all the times she almost asked him for coffee, to dinner, to join her to do something in the evening. Where the fondness had come from, she didn't know, but it was there and it wasn't going away.

 

_Months and months, it's been like this_. Anthea thought, twirling the small blue-topped sprig between her palms. _Have we flirted? We're close enough to flirt and probably not notice it. But months of too-tight hugs and kisses on the cheek and all the gifts? Is that normal?_

 

It might be the spirit of the holiday talking, bur Anthea thinks she might just have had enough of not knowing quite where she stands with the handsome, red-bearded baker next door.


	3. Cake And Carnations.

Admittedly, this isn't one of her finest ideas. Pies were supposed to be _easy_ for first-time bakers, or at least that was what the recipe book had said. If she'd had the common sense, she would have asked Mycroft that morning, but this is going to be a surprise, damn it, come Hell or high water.

 

“Flour, sugar, salt, butter... _Fuck it_ , I'm starting again.” Anthea huffs, pushing the bowl away.

 

The mix inside looks nothing like it should. Her laptop is open a few feet away from her, displaying the ' _oh so simple_ ' recipe for a strawberry pie. She hasn't even gotten to the fruit stage yet and she already fancies giving up. Written across the top of the web page is _Simple Easy Strawberry Pie_ ; it's taunting her from the safety of the internet, where it knows she can't reach it. She could close the page, sure, but then she'd really be up the creek without a paddle.

 

It's getting late, too. The sun is already sinking on the horizon, streaking pink and gold through her window and all through her kitchen. Whoever dares to put such a beautiful sunset in the sky the evening before Valentine's Day is just plain cruel; Anthea feels its warmth as she sighs, rests her head on her flour-covered hands, and contemplates giving up, yet again.

 

“Maybe this is why Mycroft is the baker, not me.” Anthea pushes herself up from the counter, lumpy mixture forgotten. She grabs her phone and ignores the way she trails flour over the wooden floor and coats every surface she touches with it too.

 

_Kitchen emergency. A pie crust is out to get me. Are you busy? I could use your help. -A x_

 

She taps her phone on her chin once the message has sent. She shouldn't be asking for Mycroft's help when the pie is for him, after all, but she wants to get it right _so badly_ and she definitely isn't going to present him with a lumpy, bumpy strawberry pie the following morning. She had had these grand visions where she shows up at the bakery with the tin in her hand, wrapped in a red bow, and when she gives him the pie, it's the best confession of ' _I accidentally started to fancy you even though I thought you were going to be a bit of a bastard when we first met_ ' that the world has ever seen.

 

That won't happen if her pie looks like the edible offspring of Frankenstein's Monster and a pie-maker's worst nightmare.

 

Her phone vibrates in her palm, rattling her bottom jaw when it does. It's all it takes to pull her from her thoughts and remind her that she still has something to focus on.

 

_A pie crust is out to get you? Sounds terrifying. I'll need your address, my dear, but I'll be glad to come and help as much as I can. -MH_

 

Anthea honestly doesn't know what she did to rope him into her life, but she's glad she did. The _'my dear'_ had become a habit a long time ago, but it still pulls a smile from her when she reads it.

 

_You're a saint. I'm so sorry to have to ask so late! Here's my address, and thank you again, really! God only knows what I'd do without you! See you soon. -A x_

_-Message attachment-_

 

She needs to dispose of the evidence of her failure before he gets there. Would binning it work? Anthea looks to her kitchen bin; it's almost full, so throwing it straight into the bin isn't going to help her. She could take it out to the recycling, but that means leaving the house covered in flour and she's not going to get washed up just in case that takes too long and he arrives anyway. There's a flash of panic and it's all down to the monstrosity currently occupying her mixing bowl.

 

 _Leaving it might give him a bit of a laugh._ Anthea reasons, tilting the bowl to peer in on her 'creation' again. It's powdery, still, which is frankly ridiculous given the amount of work she'd put into kneading it. That's what does it: it really is _ridiculous_ and, if nothing else, it'll be good for a giggle when Mycroft arrives.

 

The mixing bowl monster gets to live for a little longer.

 

*****

 

There are two things that Mycroft realises, as he's walking towards the address Anthea gave him.

 

1) She really doesn't live as far away as he thought she would, which is nice to know.

 

2) He looks really quite stupid, carrying a bunch of carnations with him the night before Valentine's Day.

 

Those he passes on the street probably think he's going to perform a last ditch attempt at wooing the woman of his dreams, akin to a _Love Actually_ scene. If they didn't have places to be, Mycroft is sure they would have followed him to watch the pathetic spectacle unfold.

 

There he is, tipping closer to forty with every passing day and tipping the scales further from his goal weight every passing day, on his way to a young, beautiful woman's home. With flowers and the intention to give them to her, he might add.

 

“She's a florist. I'm giving _flowers_ to a _florist_. This is _so stupid_.” Mycroft chides himself, pausing on the corner of the street. He should go back home. He should turn around and tell her that something has come up with his brother, or an emergency bakery order has come through. He should tell her anything, really, that would put some distance between them long enough for this pathetic concoction of infatuation and admiration and deep, true friendship to go away. Anthea would probably have plans for the following day anyway. Why else would she be trying to make a pie, rather than just buying one? Or asking him to make one for her, even?

 

 _She's trying to impress someone_. Mycroft concludes, pursing his lips as he begins to walk again. There's no need to drive a wedge between them. Their friendship, after all, meant more to him than anything. He had never admitted it to her, but Mycroft hardly thinks it needs saying. She's the highlight of his day, every day, and he loves having her around. The fact that it's taken him so many months to finally sort through his complicated emotions to find that he does, truly, have a fancy for her is a testament to how much he values the two of them as they are, really.

 

He's still thinking about how ridiculous the flowers in his hand are and about how silly he's going to look when he arrives at Anthea's front door.

 

Her home is a quaint building, nestled between others that should really be identical. Anthea's home is decorated with bright yellow and rich blue from the irises in the window boxes, and a lamp hangs in the archway that leaves it illuminated, rather than drenched in shadow like the others. Even from the outside, it's warm and inviting, just like the woman herself.

 

Mycroft doesn't actually get to knock the front door or ring the bell. He steps up and finds himself greeted with an open door and a _very_ floury Anthea.

 

“You weren't joking when you said the pie crust was out to get you.” Mycroft comments before he can stop himself. He laughs, faintly, but he's too nervous and Christ, she can probably tell that he's shaking in his boots.

 

Luckily for him, Anthea laughs too. There's a dot of dough on the side of her nose and flour in her hair, but she's so glad to see him that she honestly doesn't care. She'd rather have him there and be absolutely filthy than not have him there at all.

 

“I'd hug you, but-” Anthea gestures to herself as she ushers him in; bumping the door closed with her hip is the only option and the slam causes the window beside it to rattle. “Sorry. Mucky hands. You must promise me you won't laugh when you see this. I mean, I know you _will_ , but you must promise.”

 

So far, she hasn't noticed the flowers. He tucked them behind his back like a flustered schoolboy as he stepped up to the door, but Anthea is far too preoccupied to notice that he seems to have lost an arm somewhere along the way. He manoeuvres the bunch of flowers around as he sheds his coat, nodding to her at the end of the hall. “I promise, my dear. I won't laugh, not for a single second.”

 

Satisfied, Anthea walks away with a spring in her step. Once she's around the corner, Mycroft allows himself a moment to relax. He presses his forehead against the cool wood of the front door, flowers in front of him, hidden by the shield of his body just in case she comes back. He still doesn't understand why he's quite so nervous. She's one of the most lovely women he's ever had the pleasure of meeting, after all. She's fiercely intelligent, incredibly witty, and the natural chemistry they have between them is indescribable. Ah. That will be why he's so nervous, then. There's a lot at stake.

 

Before he can think to bolt without cause, Mycroft peels himself away from the door and heads to the kitchen. There's flour on the floor, a dough smear on one of the higher cupboards, and Anthea is surveying a mixing bowl with uncomfortable distaste.

 

“Be careful. It might bite.” Mycroft remarks, moving around the counter to stand beside her. He only glances into the bowl before he falls short of the mark and breaks his promise. He titters, he doesn't laugh, and folds his lips over his teeth when she glares at him. “Sorry, sorry. I... It's certainly an _interesting_ approach to a pie.”

 

Anthea, however, isn't listening. Her eyes have moved away from the bowl to where a mottled round of bright red and strands of green are protruding from Mycroft's poorly hidden hand. She touches his elbow ever so gently, curious. He tenses under her touch, aware that he has been truly rumbled.

 

It takes a slow moment for him to pull his arm out from behind himself and present the flowers to her. His arm aches and the blooms feel heavy. He's presenting her with thick lead, not light, colourful petals and strong stems. Anthea's hand burns where it rests on his forearm, curling against the fabric of his plain brown jumper. Her fingertips seek the flower closest to her, brushing each petal in sequence. Anthea can barely breathe and it looks as if Mycroft has stopped completely.

 

“They're for you.” Mycroft speaks quietly, his nerves getting the better of him. He could run a busy bakery all by himself without complaint, but this is terrifying. This is different, equally important but somehow more profound. It matters, truly, and it all balances on her reaction. “I was told that carnations are the second most popular flower for Valentine's Day. You've seen so many roses lately, I thought I'd break up the monotony a little bit.”

 

Anthea can almost taste the lump in her throat. She brushes off her hands properly, scared of getting flour on the beautiful red petals. She swallows hard, trying to get rid of the emotional ball wedged in the back of her mouth, but it won't budge. It's so thoughtful and so silly and both of them had thought to do something so out of their comfort zone for one another... It's a tragic cliché, but what else would be more appropriate for Valentine's Day?

 

“They're beautiful.” Anthea breathes, taking them from Mycroft gently. She holds onto his hand when it's free, leading him along when she goes to find water for them and some left over plant feed from her latest bulk order for the shop. She places them in a vase with water, feeds them, and then turns back to the man who's hand she's holding. “Thank you, Mycroft. I wish... God, I wish I'd been able to bake a pie without making it look like it could be sentient gloop. I was _trying_ to bake a strawberry pie so that I could give it to you and then ask if you wanted to share it with a glass of wine when we were done with the day.”

 

It comes out in a rush and he can see that Anthea feels silly for admitting it, but at least he isn't the only one any more. She's blushing, very faintly, and Mycroft strokes a thumb over her cheek when she looks at him again. There's a smile there, as timid as his own.

 

“Do you know what they mean? Red carnations, obviously.” Anthea takes his other hand, swinging them gently between them. When Mycroft shakes his head, the pink spreads further across her cheeks. She's not embarrassed, though. That much is clear in how she takes a small step forwards, narrowing the space between them. “Red carnations, in some circles, mean _'my heart aches for you'_.”

 

“It does.” The second the words leave his lips, Mycroft has to chase them. He needs them back. Or, perhaps, he needs to make sure they're pressed to the right surface.

 

Anthea meets him when he leans down to kiss her. Her hands drop his immediately, coming up to loop around his neck, dusting flour under his collar. She presses close and he fits to her like a glove, supporting her and holding her with thick arms around her waist. It's nothing like Mycroft imagined it would be. She's softer, more fluid when she pushes up against him, more energetic than he'd expected.

 

He kisses like it's all he knows how to do. His fingers knead her hips, moving under the flour-drenched apron to fit along her sides, sliding under her t-shirt to feel the warmth of her skin. Anthea gasps against his lips, scrapes her nails over his neck in a way that screams ' _play fair_ '. It's a little clumsy, the way their lips fit together with gaps at the edges, where they're coming apart at the seams. Anthea grapples at his hair, leans up on her toes as Mycroft's hands race around her back, pulling her up. She pries his lips open with her tongue as he lifts her, guiding her back towards the counter.

 

Being hoisted onto the counter, legs around Mycroft's waist with his large, warm hands on her bare back should have been incredibly sexy. The squelch of the leftover Frankenstein dough she lands her backside in spoils that, ever so slightly. Anthea pulls away from his lips, already howling with laughter. She pushes and scrabbles off the counter, the evidence of her baking catastrophe clinging to the seat of her jeans. Mycroft's arms are still around her and Anthea is still laughing when he kisses her again.

 

“No, no- _Mycroft_ , oh my god. Let me get it off! I can't believe you let me sit in dough.” Her voice is high, tinkling as she giggles, peeling away from him at long last. Mycroft hands her a cloth, finally laughing along as she tries (and fails) to rub the sticky, flour-rich dough from her trousers.

 

“You'll just have to take them off, you're really doing no good like that.”

 

“ _That_ was an incredibly lame attempt to see me in my underwear, Mr Holmes.” Anthea teases, slipping her apron up over her head. He's not wrong, though. The dough just clumps together when she tries to rub it off a final time, congealing on her leg, instead.

 

Anthea huffs and Mycroft delicately kisses away her frown. It takes a few small kisses for it to disappear, and then Anthea is smiling against his mouth, stroking the sides of his meticulously maintained beard, threading her fingers up into his hair again. His tongue darts against her lips and Anthea parts them willingly. The dough doesn't feel _too_ horrid, not while she's being distracted by Mycroft's kisses, but she knows she's going to have to do something about it. Sooner rather than later, preferably.

 

“I should-” His lips are insistent, hot and addictive. Anthea presses back, if only to hear Mycroft hum contentedly when he meets her tongue again. “ _We_ should-” Anthea asserts, holding her hands against his chest when she speaks again. “We should go and clean up. You're covered in flour and I've got dough clinging to my bottom. The pie can always wait.”

 

Mycroft moves his hands slowly, sliding them over her hips and the small of her back. The way Anthea's eyes widen when he skims them over her backside and presses his palm down to roll the largest lump of dough away is priceless. She's not sure whether to laugh or kiss him again. She really would be terrible at poker, too; her face is a mix of hunger and confusion, amusement and want. Mycroft laughs and takes full responsibility for how she playfully pushes him a second later.

 

“I doubt you have any clothes that would fit me, my dear.” Mycroft jokes, earning him a swat on the arm. “Unless you were suggesting something else?”

 

Anthea rolls her eyes at him. She's waited _months_ just to kiss him, and now he's going to play coy? Not on her watch, no sir. She pulls on his hands, turns on him and pushes him towards the hallway and the stairs. “C'mon, there's nothing wrong with your legs.” Anthea grins, peeling past him as she begins to work on the button of her jeans. They're halfway down her hips as she reaches the middle step, pinched on the swell of her backside. “I was thinking we could take a shower. Unless you don't want to, of course. You should stay where you are, if you don't. I'll try not to be too long.”

 

She runs off up the stairs, cackling when she hears the beat of footsteps not far behind her. Mycroft catches her on the landing and pulls her in for a kiss again. Anthea moves them backwards, gripping his collar as she blindly navigates her bedroom, through to the bathroom.

 

They're still kissing – hands fisted in hair and grappling at clothes that are already halfway off – when she boots the door closed behind them.


	4. Be My Valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptive smut that ends in yet more fluff awaits.
> 
> Any comments or kudos when you reach the end would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!

There's nothing sexy about skinny jeans, Anthea decides. Mycroft is already down to his boxers, bent over her with his lips against her neck, and they're _both_ trying to pry down her dough-soiled trousers with little avail. She grumbles and curses, rocking this way and that until they come down to her knees.

 

“Not how you were envisioning this?” Mycroft grins when she all but flops onto the closed toilet seat. Anthea lifts her legs, impatient, and steadies herself on the sink and towel rail beside her. Mycroft heaves and pulls until off her jeans come. He has to a step back to avoid toppling when they spring off of her calves and into his hands.

 

Anthea is out of her underwear and inside the shower cubicle before Mycroft can so much as blink. He stares at the dark, lace-trimmed garments on the floor for a moment, unable to quite comprehend _how_ she had gotten out of them quite so quickly. His boxers join them soon enough, however, and the shower is almost too hot when he steps inside behind Anthea. Steam rolls up either side of them, her skin flushed and shimmering with a wet sheen; he slides his hands over her hips and she turns, hair curling in damp waves either side of her face.

 

“I never dared envision this at all.” Anthea admits, carding a wet hand through his hair when Mycroft finds himself stuck for words.

 

In truth, not enough about all of this has been said between them. Between the flowers and failed pie and Anthea sitting in dough, there simply hadn't been time to speak. The urgency hadn't been necessary, Mycroft sees that now. He slows his hands down, maps her skin rather than just feels it. He counts the bumps of her spine from her shoulders to the curve of her bottom and files away the angles and lines of her physical form for when he can't hold her in person.

 

Anthea closes her eyes and just lets herself sink into the sensation of his hands on her skin. She hasn't looked at him, not properly, and she isn't sure she wants to. Everything about Mycroft is so beautiful, sharp and crisp down to the finest detail and capped with a soft smile. It's intimidating, frankly. Warm water drips over her eyelashes and down her cheeks, rolling over her neck and chest as she's slowly eased backwards. She keeps her eyes closed. She trusts him to keep her steady, safe.

 

The tiles are freezing against her back when she reaches them. His hands are hot, burning lines against her hips that even the near-scalding water can't wash away. Mycroft's fingertips brush the tiles as his hands move further up her back, creating and destroying space as they move. Anthea's lips fit around his collarbones, skate over his neck. Her hands are firm anchors against his ribs, feeling soft flesh that extends down into a trim form with an even softer stomach. _A baker's belly_. Anthea thinks with a fond smile. It spreads against his neck before her tongue breaks it, eager to trace every single one of his freckles by the time they're done.

  
“You never thought about this?”

  
Mycroft's voice seems far away to her. Anthea is floating on sensation, arching into and away from his hands when they rake over her backside and hit all the ticklish spots over her sides. She squirms, pressed up against him as she is, and her eyes squeeze shut at the new assault of subtle pleasure. It's thrumming all around them, building slowly into a flame that burns low in her abdomen and sets his blood ablaze.

 

“Anthea?” Mycroft kisses her sharply, drawing her back to earth. She can taste reality on his lips, whatever it is that tastes like. Sugar, cinnamon, Earl Grey tea. It's warm, comforting, just like being boxed in by his body is. “You never thought about this?” She shakes her head and it earns her a wicked grin.

 

Anthea gasps when Mycroft's hands skate up to cup her breasts. She hadn't felt his fingertips get so close. She arches into the touch, his palms rough against her nipples as she presses even closer. For someone that is capable of such delicate work, his hands are hardened from years of kneading and handling things fresh from the oven.

 

Her body is a furnace and Mycroft handles her just as well.

 

“I don't believe you.” He sighs, teasing, with his lips against her throat. Mycroft sucks on her skin, painting his own bruised blooms as he moves along. Each suckled love bite looks like the blotches of new dahlia blooms, deep purple bleeding out until it fades away, proof of mercy. Anthea feels each mark shake her core; she's burning up and she loves it, arches into his hands, against him, torn between feeling too much and wanting so much more.

 

“I think you've thought about this before. I think you've thought about me touching you, marking you like this.” Mycroft's lips continue, moving down over her collarbones. He doesn't mark her there. Just seeing the dark dahlias that dot her throat and shoulder is enough for him. “I think you've thought about what you want me to do to you. How you want me to please you-”

 

“No.” Anthea shakes her head, gasping against the water as Mycroft's thigh fits between hers. She clings to him, hands pulling through his hair until he kisses her again, tongue hot and heavy against her own. “Not once. I've never-”

 

Mycroft cuts her off with a kiss. He rocks his thigh and Anthea moans against his tongue. Each time he moves, his hands squeeze, and the shock that shoots down her spine when he presses his palms against her nipples has her trembling. When they break apart, panting through the steam, Mycroft confesses. “Neither have I. Not until now. Not until I saw you like this.”

 

The fact that neither of them wanted to make themselves too hopeful by imagining all of this hangs, implicit, in the air between them. Anthea swallows every breath, gasps them back when she twitches against his thigh. She would have him there, if she could, but it's just not practical. The shower is too small, too hot, too slippery. The débâcle with her jeans had been embarrassing enough without adding a fall in the shower to the mix.

 

“Bedroom.” Anthea mouths against his lips. She treats him to a final kiss and a hurried lather for them both, before dragging him out from under the last drips of water. The shower continues to drip as they dry, grinning and kissing and trying not to get too carried away.

 

She's still damp when she kicks back the covers and falls onto her bed. The sheets stick, trying to keep her in one place so that she has the time to appraise Mycroft as he approaches. It's the first time she's seen him. Properly, at least, naked and flushed from the heat of the shower, one hand stroking his cock, walk a little lopsided because of it. He's gorgeous, absolutely beautiful, and Anthea is floored by how suddenly lucky she feels. He shifts over her, cock hard and hands trembling. She kisses away his nerves and takes his breath in one motion, her hands against his scruff-covered jaw. She teases the skin beneath with her nails, just like she does to his scalp, and Mycroft growls against her lips, pressing down against her fully.

 

Fumbling hands press and pull at skin, fighting for a way to get closer, always closer. Anthea's legs frame his hips, taught and tan against pale and freckly, and one arm circles his neck, holding his lips against her skin. Mycroft takes his time as he moves down her chest, tongue exploring the clean, clear taste of her skin. Her nails rake over his neck when he closes his lips around a nipple. He hisses, gently bites, and the moan that rips from her throat is so primal that Mycroft almost feels a shiver of fear. She pulls his hair as he kisses and sucks on her nipples, teasing one into a taut peak before moving on to the other. Her hips buck and roll, sliding his cock through the folds of her sex as she tries valiantly to open her bedside drawer.

 

Each time she rolls her hips, Mycroft can feel how wet she is. He's groaning and gasping against her chest before she's even got the drawer open, his own hips moving in tandem. He could stay like this, quite happily, but there's so much more that they want from each other. When his lips return to her neck and jaw, Anthea can concentrate better, and her fingers close around a condom much faster. She tears the packet and pushes, following Mycroft over with a fierce kiss. She bites at his lips and straddles his hips, her wet hair veiling them from the world as she teases his tongue with her own. Between them, one hand eases his cock closer, rolls on the condom, holds him steady. The other grapples for one of Mycroft's, demanding his attention.

 

As Anthea sinks slowly onto his cock, she presses his hand between her folds, right against the bundle of nerves that she had no doubt he would have been able to find on his own. Still, she wasn't going to take any chances, either.

 

Mycroft's eyes are blown wide as he stares up at her, disbelief written across his face. Anthea's eyelashes fan out against her cheeks as she closes her eyes, kiss-bruised lips parted in silent praise. She's barely flush against his hips when his free hand anchors against her hip.

 

“God, look at you. You're... Christ, you're so beautiful, Anthea.” Mycroft gasps, curling the two fingers he has pressed against her clit. Anthea shudders, keening in his lap as her hips twitch forwards. She's gone silent, overwhelmed, but Mycroft manages to ease her down a little. She bends willingly into his kiss, her hands holding her up with one either side of his head. The drag of his cock inside of her as she shifts is exquisite; Anthea keens against his lips, pours her passion into a hard kiss, before she finally begins to move.

 

It's only a small twitch of her hips to begin with. She tests him, pants along with him as he keeps those fingers right where she wants them. Anthea moves up, slowly, becoming surer with each movement. Mycroft can only watch, utterly reverent, as she begins to set her own pace, sinking and rising, faster and faster, until he can feel her getting wetter around his fingers. His hand squeezes her hip, her skin pressure-white around his fingertips. Anthea moans when it slides up, cups her breast, squeezes again. She wants to make this feel as good for him as it is for her, but one look at his blissed-out face tells her she won't have to try very hard at all.

 

Words fail them both. Anthea gasps, Mycroft answers with a moan as she sinks down onto his cock, the heat almost too much. She's almost too tight around him, but she's dripping onto his thighs, slick and hot and raking lines over his chest when she sits up fully.

 

There, she is a sight to see. Her skin is a masterpiece of blushes and suckled bruises, her chest heaving as she fucks herself on his cock without shame. Anthea catches his hand, holds it tight in her own, and when she meets his gaze, she can only whimper.

 

“M- _Fuck, fuck_ \- My... Mycroft.” Anthea moans around his name, the first real words spoken since the heat took over.

 

She's gasping out little broken, mewling moans, her eyes wide open and locked on his. Mycroft can't look away. She's beautiful, absolutely resplendent, and if he looks away, he'll never see anything like it again. This time, the first time, and she's his, all his.

 

Mycroft lets go of her hand in favour of her hip again. He lifts his knees, jolts her where she sits, but Anthea isn't off-balance for long. Mycroft moves his hips, fucks up into her, and she's all but screaming when she moans again. She slumps forwards, holding on tightly to his shoulder with one hand as her other joins his, pressed between her legs. She directs him, moves his fingers in tight, hard circles against her clit, hips bucking and writhing wildly. It won't be long, Mycroft knows, before she's coming, right there on his cock.

 

He groans as he kisses her, biting her lip and sucking on her tongue. Their foreheads meet and he just breathes against her, moaning into the air between them. “Anthea... God, _fuck_ ,I don't think-”

 

Anthea shakes her head, too close to orgasm for words. She pulls on his hair with one hand, hips snapping back to sheath his cock fully, and she presses Mycroft's fingers so close against her clit that he almost thinks it could be painful. Her hips move in obscene circles, stunning her into silence as her lips drop apart and then she's coming, all too quick and all too hard, clenched tight around Mycroft's cock. He holds onto her as long as possible, but it's too much. His hips move, fucking into her again, harder and faster while Anthea finds her voice. She chokes on the first moan, overstimulated and sensitive, but then she's clawing at his shoulders, pulling his hand away from her clit so that she can take his fingers into her mouth-

Mycroft feels like the world is coming apart at the edges when he cums. His hips freeze, his body shakes, and his moan is so embarrassingly loud that he fears for Anthea's neighbours.

 

*****

 

They come down together, slowly, softly, tangled in damp bedsheets and desperate to catch their breath. Anthea feels comfortably achy, boneless when she sinks to the mattress. Mycroft ties off the condom and drops it into her bin, before inviting her into his side.

 

“Happy Valentine's Day.” Anthea yawns, knuckling her eyes as mottled pink light filters through her blinds from the setting sun outside. It's not yet there, not really, but it's close enough. Tomorrow, they'll both have to work, so it makes sense to make the most of the time they have.

 

Beside her, Mycroft smiles. It spreads from his lips to his eyes without hesitation, infecting his expression with such adoration that it makes Anthea's heart hurt. She covers them with the duvet and presses against him, lips to his chin, jaw, mouth, before she settles. His heart thuds under her palm, racing just like her own. It's something she could get used to, hearing his heart beat in his chest, feeling his arm around her shoulders, protecting her even in sleep. She wonders if she'll get that chance.

 

“Happy Valentine's Day, my dear.” Mycroft replies, kissing the softly spoken words against her forehead. Anthea sighs, content, and her lips curl into a sleepy smile as she finally closes her eyes.

 

“The pie can wait a while longer.” She comments, her smile widening just enough to make it truly funny.

 

Mycroft laughs, his arm squeezing her tight as he kisses her forehead again and again. “Yes, my dear. I believe it can.”


End file.
